The Old Year's gone away To nothingness and night: We cannot find him all the day Nor hear him in the night: He left no footstep, mark or place In either shade or sun: The last year he'd a neighbour's face, In this he's known by none. All nothing everywhere: Mists we on mornings see Have more of substance when they're here And more of form than he. He was a friend by every fire, In every cot and hall-- A guest to every heart's desire, And now he's nought at all. Old papers thrown away, Old garments cast aside, The talk of yesterday, Are things identified; But time once torn away No voices can recall: The eve of New Year's Day Left the Old Year lost to all.
John Clare - 1793-1864
Farewell to the bushy clump close to the river And the flags where the butter-bump hides in for ever; Farewell to the weedy nook, hemmed in by waters; Farewell to the miller's brook and his three bonny daughters; Farewell to them all while in prison I lie— In the prison a thrall sees nought but the sky. Shut out are the green fields and birds in the bushes; In the prison yard nothing builds, blackbirds or thrushes. Farewell to the old mill and dash of the waters, To the miller and, dearer still, to his three bonny daughters. In the nook, the large burdock grows near the green willow; In the flood, round the moorcock dashes under the billow; To the old mill farewell, to the lock, pens, and waters, To the miller himsel', and his three bonny daughters.